The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

One: The Phoenix Decision

Dear Reader

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

The Phoenix
 

Campaign

Heidi Joy Tretheway

For this book’s fairy godmothers,

Adrian, Devanie, Natalie, Nancy, and Cynthia.

Jared owns you a big, stubbly kiss.

So do I—minus the whiskers.

To be loved for your best self is hollow.

All can be beautiful, for a time.

All can be graceful, in turn.

But this love cannot endure.

To be loved for your true self is fulfillment.

It is a deeper magic, dynamic and wild.

It celebrates the scars.

It forgives the failings.
 

It embraces the struggle.

True love is not blind.

It sees.

Everything.

And yet, it still loves.

CHAPTER ONE

Too many people are watching me.

The Secret Service has an apartment across the hall from my newly rented Washington, D.C. condominium. Every coming and going is recorded and protected, measured and managed. I can’t slip away.

The media records me at every turn, analyzing my wardrobe, my hair, my speeches past and present. At least some of them have their eye on the ball and aren’t behaving like paparazzi who simply try to catch me on a day without makeup.

I can’t even go to the grocery store without a reporter telling America what’s in my basket. Organic or regular? Butter or margarine? Post or General Mills?

Jared’s watching me, too, his face drawn, his eyes uncertain as I feel increasingly run down after our twelve- and fourteen-hour days. Even more than the fierce, mind-blowing sex with Jared, I need sleep.

Senator Shep Conover chose me as his vice presidential running mate and now we have less than two months before the general election. Eat, sleep, prep, travel, talk. It’s all I do.

Finally, I crack under the scrutiny. I can’t
not
know any longer. And so I call Aliza.

“I need you to come to D.C.,” I tell her. “Do you think you can get away from work for a bit?”

“Maybe on the weekend?” Aliza’s been my best friend since law school and she’s also the only person I can trust with this assignment. The only one.

“Any chance you can come sooner?” My voice is strained. “Like, on a flight out at nine tonight? I’ll get you an upgrade.”

“Miss me that much?” Aliza laughs, her cheerful voice ringing through the line from Oregon. “I thought you had Mr. Hot-and-Please-Bother-Me keeping you warm between speeches.”

“I do. But I need you.” My voice wavers.
Don’t cry. Don’t lose it, Grace. You don’t even know yet.

“Sweetie. I hear you. I can take the redeye. God, are you OK?”

“Yeah.” I take a breath and spit it out. “But I need you to bring me something. Confidentially.”

“We still have our attorney-client privilege, remember? You got me on retainer for a buck.”

“And you put it in your bra!” I love her special, whip-smart brand of crazy. “Aliza. This is serious. I need you to bring me a pregnancy test.”

***

“If you have a drink of wine before you know, it doesn’t count,” Aliza says, pressing a glass into my hands.

“I’m pretty sure it’s bad karma.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not going to make a bit of difference. Except maybe relaxing you. And tonight, sweetie, you need to relax.”

I take the glass and wet my lips with white wine, but my heart’s not in it. The pregnancy test Aliza brought me has been sitting on the kitchen bar since she arrived and I’m afraid to touch it.

To make it real.

To figure out whether my thirty-nine-year-old body just revolted against everything I’ve worked for in the last four years and decided to surprise me with the worst possible news.

I can’t be the pregnant candidate. I can’t be the unwed, knocked up, single, slutty, vice presidential candidate. I can’t.

I can’t make a baby with a man who only figured out how kissing and commitment works
last week.
My one-night-stand man. My political consultant. Jared.

A man who grew up without a father and who has never shown the slightest desire to become a father himself.

I set down my wineglass and pick up the blue-and-white box. Aliza points me to the bathroom.

“No more procrastinating. Get in there, pee on the stick, and don’t you dare look at it until you come out here and show me.”

I obey.

My panties are strung between my knees as I sit on the toilet, inspecting my chipped toenail polish.
I can’t even keep up a pedicure. How the hell could I take care of a baby and be in politics?

Aliza raps on the bathroom door. “Time’s up, girl. Get out here. Show me.”

I force my gaze away from the little plastic stick so I won’t see it. So I won’t know for five more seconds. I pull up my yoga pants, open the bathroom door, and let Aliza in.

Then we both stare at the test on the counter. The window on the white stick reveals an unmistakable blue plus.

It’s positive.

I’m pregnant.

CHAPTER TWO

Aliza throws her arms around me and hugs me tight. “Oh my God, girl!”

I can’t breathe. My lips are numb and I can’t even find the words to react, but my whole body begins to shake like I’ve been thrust into a freezer, little icicles prickling my skin.

Aliza wraps an arm around my shoulders and propels me out of the bathroom, toward the couch in the living room where I sit and she covers my legs with a blanket. I just stare at her stupidly.

“Drink this.” She pushes the glass of wine at me.

I shake my head. A tear slides down my cheek and drops on the front of my blue T-shirt, leaving a dark stain. More tears follow and all I can do is blink against the rising tide of fear.

“Oh, Grace,” she sighs. She goes to the kitchen and fills my tea kettle, then rustles around in my cabinets for tea.

My son Ethan was wished for, prayed for, visited-fertility-specialists-for, had-sex-on-a-schedule-for. I peed on a stick so many times, each time holding my breath, begging for the miracle of life.

And nearly every time, disappointed.

But when a rich and perfect blessing is taken so suddenly, so cruelly, it feels like too much to ever hope for more. I never hoped for another child after my husband Seth and son Ethan’s deaths because I never wanted to embrace the pain of another life that could be torn from me.

By the time Aliza brings two steaming mugs back to the couch, I’ve swiped the trails of tears from my cheeks and found a way to breathe. I’m still here, in my brand-new, Secret Service-guarded condo with boxes lining the walls. I haven’t even unpacked.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aliza asks. I take the tea from her and sip, unsure if I’m ready to talk. “Or we can just sit. Or watch TV. Or figure out some way to torture the cute Secret Service guy standing outside your door. He’s
totally
my type.”

That coaxes a small smile from my lips.

“I’m hungry. You were a nut for pancakes when you were pregnant with Ethan. Do you have any cravings now? We could order Chinese.”

The thought of greasy, spicy Chinese food makes my stomach roll and my hand clutches my belly.
It’s in there. A baby. Maybe not much more than a bundle of cells yet, but it’s real.

“Not Chinese, but yeah, I’m hungry.”

Aliza’s eyes light up—she’s gotten me talking again. Baby steps. “Well, we could order whatever you want. There’s a monster stack of menus on your kitchen counter.”

“I think they did that because it’s easier to order in than to babysit us when I go out,” I say. “But I’ve only got a couple days to hang out with you, so let’s not waste it.”

“I’m game. What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything but Chinese. Or pancakes. Italian?”

“All the best carbs, all in one place. So long as they have tiramisu, I’m game.” Aliza pushes off the couch. “Go ask the babysitters and I’ll get dressed. And you, my dear, need a shower.”

I laugh, my overflowing emotions swinging wildly between terror and hysteria. Nothing like an old friend to give you the unvarnished truth. In law school, through marriage and motherhood, and then
 
when I lost my family five years ago to a gunman who killed three people at Willamette Mall, Aliza has seen me at my very worst.

I was tremendously proud when she could also see me at my best, when I delivered my acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention last week in front of thirty-five thousand people and tens of millions who tuned in on TV.

I open my front door and the two Secret Service suits, a man and a woman, stand at attention.

And then I realize what I look like. Yoga pants, a tear-soaked T-shirt, puffy eyes and no bra.

“Oops—sorry.” I pull myself back so they can’t see much of me through the cracked open door. “I was just going to say we’re going out to dinner. Somewhere Italian.”

“You don’t know which restaurant? We need an hour to clear it,” the woman says. Her hair is drawn back in a severe bun, and though she’s probably younger than me, she frowns like a cranky librarian.

“My friend’s hungry now. We’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

Which, of course, makes her frown more. “Congresswoman Colton, would you please give us the proper time—”

“Relax, Mac,” her partner interrupts. He turns to me. “We’ll be happy to escort you to Nicolette’s. It’s a nice Italian place that’s Zagat-rated. We can have it cleared in thirty minutes. Would you like us to have your car ready in twenty?”

“Thank you,” I tell the man.

He raises his sleeve and speaks. “Phoenix plus one to location November India Romeo in twenty. Driver detail and two tables.”

Mac’s cheeks redden and her face is pinched. I get it. It sucks to have your decisions undermined. That’s pretty much how I felt the first month working with Jared. He was pushy and controlling—a tough mix with my stubborn streak.

I try to smooth her ruffled feathers. “I’ll try to give you more notice next time, Mac. Sorry about that.”

“Thank you, Congresswoman Colton.”

***

Nicolette’s is perfect, serving fat, pillowy ravioli and a pink vodka sauce that I want to eat every day of my life. We’re positioned three tables away from the Secret Service agents so Mac’s back is to me, facing the door and the front of the busy restaurant, while her partner faces our table and the back of the restaurant.

That leaves him in a perfect position for Aliza to blatantly check him out. She grilled him as they escorted us down the elevator to the car and learned that his name is Eric. Mac’s full name is Mackenzie. Neither are married, and they’re one of four pairs of agents who will be my primary detail through the general election.

It doesn’t matter whether Aliza has her lawyer or best friend hat on. She has a knack for extracting information.

“How do you feel? Any different?” Aliza asks as I push away my clean plate.

“Scared. Strange. I don’t feel like any of this is real.” I gesture around the crowded restaurant, indicating my new status as the vice presidential nominee makes going out to dinner
with a security detail
the new normal.

“How’s your morning sickness?”

“I don’t know why they call it that. It’s never just in the morning.” I remember all the times I puked before I had to go give an important speech and give her a wry smile. “At least I can hope it will go away eventually, that it’s not just stage fright.”

“Yeah, otherwise you’d be stuck with it for a lot more than a few months,” Aliza says. “I’m so excited for you. I can’t even believe we can go out right now when something so big is about to happen.”

“Can’t get ahead of ourselves,” I caution her as I sip my sparkling water. I’m going to get
really
bored with sparkling water in the next eight months. “I told Jared I had to take today off because I felt like I was coming down with something. He’s in Chicago with Shep right now, but he’ll be back Sunday night.”

“He’s turning you into a workaholic.”

“What can I say? That man’s spent his whole life on political campaigns. He
defines
workaholic.”